


Rituals

by In_love_with_writing002



Series: Rings ‘Verse [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale SnapsTM, Aziraphale dislikes change, Crowley doesn’t understand, Gen, Habits, Hurt Crowley, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 08:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21353194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_love_with_writing002/pseuds/In_love_with_writing002
Summary: With all these new things that they’d tried, Aziraphale was feeling nostalgic.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley, Aziraphale/Crowley
Series: Rings ‘Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528565
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Not an easy one my guys, sorry.

With all these new things that they’d tried, Aziraphale was feeling nostalgic. He was a creature of tradition, of ritual, of drinking the same brand of hot cocoa even when flavors would change, brand labels were developed, even when people told him it was terrible and he really ought to try a new one. He had a firm brand on loyalty to even the smallest things, which sock or shoe he put on first, (his left) which side of the bed he rolled out of if he decided to sleep, and even that, sleeping, had a ritual. When change came into his life in the form of Crowley, his rituals had to adjust. Crowley made for a completely different entity, and now Aziraphale would have to acknowledge that. He’d tried such drastic measures to accept the changes, but instead of making him feel free and rebellious, it made him want to scream.

That was how Crowley found him, near catatonic while staring at his shoes, where he’d put the right one on first. Not moving, not speaking, not breathing— just staring. Crowley spoke, trying to figure out what was wrong, what was happening, why Aziraphale was distant, and it was like a dam burst, and all of the pent of feelings exploded out of him.

_“Get out,”_ he commanded in a low voice, controlled and venomous. “Get the _hell_ out.” Crowley looked shocked, hurt, but Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to care, still staring at his right shoe, on his foot before his left. He left wordlessly, and Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to regret it either.  


It was quiet, after Crowley left. _Blessedly_ silent. It gave Aziraphale room to exist, and it felt like uncurling his fingers from a vice. Slowly-_ so carefully_, he took off his shoe, put the left one on, tied it, and then, releasing the air trapped in his lungs, he put on the right one. He wiggled his toes in his shoes, and smiled.

He walked down the stairs to the bookshop, impeccably organized as always. He put a record on, orchestral pieces a recurring customer-but-not-really had gifted him decades before. He walked to the front door and looked out of it, seeing his neighbor across the street out and opening up his shop. he flipped his sign to open and walked to the front desk, sitting down in the chair there. Papers were strewn across it, collecting dust from days, weeks without disturbance. He disturbed them now, shaking the top piece of paper— a form he’d been filling out for a shipment of new books, forgotten in his weeks with Crowley. He finished filling it out with the fountain pen he kept at his desk, long past out of ink but still perfectly functional. He set his pen down and leaned back in his chair, content. Yes, he decided. He was feeling very nostalgic today.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. Thanks for reading! Leave a comment?


End file.
